commander of our little troop, and victory soon crowned us with its verdant wreath. We entered masters of this city-yes! triumphantly we passed the gates of Orleans, and exultation marked each countenance, save that of the dejected Chatelar.*Soon came the noble Condé with his valiant troops, but Mars to us had given all the glory of the bloody fray; the Prince arrived too late to share the blooming laurels that entwined our brows; he came but to receive submission from his foes, already vanquished by our swords. Unmindful of the victory, regardless of the part I had sustained, and only dwelling on the thoughts of death and Mary, I had sought out the tranquil silence of this melancholy chamber, when suddenly a summons from my prince demanded my attendance. I obeyed, and to the noble Condé was led unwillingly by D'Andelot, who, mindful of that life I had preserved, spoke with such sounding words of my poor merits in the horrid fray, as drew down commendations from my prince, who, as a token of his gratitude,

*The History of Charles the Ninth, in speaking of the reduction of Orleans by the Hugonots, substantiates what is above stated, as it was the intention of the Prince of Condé to be present at the siege, but did not, however, arrive till its surrender to D'Andelot with his small but cho sen troop.

presented me with this insignia of honour, which he bade me ever wear, and entitle him my friend.

But what are princes' friendships; what is honour, glory, and renown, compared with thee, my queen? How many youths would covet the bright field of fame which now presents itself to Chatelar, who views it unregarded.--Strange contrariety of fate how versatile is fortune to

the children of mortality!

Love found sanctuary in the breast of Chatelar, but love was not requited.—I call on death I court annihilation, and bare my bosom to a host of darts; they turn aside, and pass me unregarded. I seek seclusion; I wish to pine away with melancholy and despair; and then comes honour and renown to marshal me where I shall meet the public gaze, and sicken with its plaudits.Is there no peace on this side of eternity? must we for ever court an illusion which evades us? must the heart-broken pilgrim of this world, when ebbing life fleets o'er his fever'd lips, receive the token of the comfort he had sought for? -'Tis even so; we are as criminals condemned to perish, who, when the executioner has done his work, receive a sluggard pardon and reprieve that mocks them in the grave.- -But is there with Chatelar a ray of comfort? even in death, can he expect the look of tenderness from her he loves? No, he must perish, far from the hea

venly casket which enshrines the queen of bliss; he must sink without a sigh in pity for his fate. -Still art thou here, my comforter; still may thy glittering point search out my heart, and give the death I pant for-yes !-Ah, no! religion now entangles me; I have espoused that cause which seals with everlasting curse the crime of suicide.— I have drawn upon myself the eyes of all the stanch adherents of our faith-what shame would then for ever blast my memory; I should be disgraced where I now seek one gleam of comfort; I should barter the applause of virtuous men, and sink into the grave the wretch of infamy.-Mary, too,-yes, my queen would hear my shame, and think the hour accursed that had presented to her sight a fiend so black as Chatelar.

What is to be resolved upon ?-Must I then exist, and drag on to age a life of wretchedness? Is there no hope of peace? and will the ghastly terror still keep his icy signet from my burning heart? Impossible! this frame must wear away; internal pangs like Chatelar's must bring him to the pallet of wasting sickness;-yes, I will feed my love; I will drink draughts of pas. sion; I will give the rein to mad'ning jealousy; I will goad my senses, and fan the fires of passion till the parched-up strings of my heart burst asunder; till this anguished flutterer be pulverised!

Come, Lorris, thy Roman de la Rose shall feed my love-Yet, no, I will first lament the

* William de Lorris, the French poet, flourished as early as the period of Saint Lewis of France, and of our Henry the Third. It is justly said of Chaucer, that he was the father of English poetry, and so may Lorris be denominated the patron of French versification. Lorris derived his

name, as was customary in those days, from the town of Lorris, situated about eight leagues from the city of Orleans. His poem, entitled Roman de la Rose, was to have consisted of 22,734 verses, but the author only composed 4149, which defalcation originated, we may conjecture, in his early death, historians having recorded nothing respecting this astonishing genius upon which we are enabled to ground any material fact. His work is an allegorical tale, by which the poet wishes to shew how many pains and pleasures attend the pursuit of pure and virtuous love. The poem was completed some years after by one John de Meun, who wrote several other works. With respect to the talents of Lorris, considering the age in which he lived, too much panegyric cannot be bestowed upon his labours. He was brilliant in his ideas, and delineated the passions with a masterly hand; his allegory was just, and his imagery correct; but we have not only to regard him in the light of a romance writer, as his production abounds with chaste representations of familiar life, by which he becomes the delineator of the manners of his own period, and the unfolder of the philosophy of the mind. The editor conceives it almost needless to inform the reader, that this production of William de Lorris was afterwards given in an English dress by Geoffrey Chaucer, who has preserved the same title in his translation.

cold ingratitude of death; I will speak my pain in sadden'd numbers, and then to thy love-feeding page, dear book !-Yes, Lorris shall be to Chatelar the source of rest till the return of beamy day.

TO THE DART OF DEATH.

How oft hath Mars his blood-stain'd weapon rear'd
While calmly smiling I have said-

O strike, and number with the dead,
This breaking heart, by love's hot arrow sear❜d.

In vain I proffer'd thus my bleeding soul;
My bosom's flame too ardent burn'd,
From ice to fire the steel was turn'd,
And hungry death had lost his dire control.

If thus the shaft neglectful turns away,

How can my fetter'd soul expire?

Save in the blaze of that bright fire,
Which beams, O goddess! from thy heav'nly eye.

Since then thy dart, grim death, I soar above,
My eyes her eyes shall meet, then die with love.